


A Miserable Martian Merry Christmas

by CaptAcorn



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Holiday Shenanigans, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9037754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptAcorn/pseuds/CaptAcorn
Summary: A post-Endgame Christmas story -- Tom Paris style!





	1. A Partridge in Pear Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when someone plants the seed of a P/T Christmas story and Capt. Acorn has a 7+ hour drive home from Thanksgiving festivities. This little tale assumes that the show's episodes took place around roughly the same time of year the episode first ran. "Present Day" means about 7 months post-Endgame.
> 
> Some disclaimers: The normal one about not owning anything, blah, blah, blah. Next, this is (obviously) a Christmas themed story, so if you hate this particular holiday for whatever reason, keep that in mind before you start reading. Lastly - my head canon is that 24th century Earth Christmas has diminished in popularity and pervasiveness; in addition, it's considered more of a secular children's holiday vs. a religious one. So please keep that in mind, too, if that idea might upset you.
> 
> As always, many thanks to Sareki and Photogirl 1890 for their beta reading. I'll be posting chapters once a day for the next 12 days. (See what I did there?) Lastly, apologies to Lincoln Steffens for the title (although his story was about a pony - no Martians...)

_Present Day_

Not for the first time in their years together, Tom Paris' wife was looking at him like he was from another planet. He didn't mean one of those planets with your run-of-the-mill, lavender-skinned humanoids with funky cranial ridges, either. He meant one of the really weird ones - like a gas giant where the inhabitants have seventeen limbs, communicate through their sweat glands, and breathe argon.

"You want me to replicate _all_ of this?" she asked, regarding the PADD in her hand.

B'Elanna was back on Mars with the baby. Tom grimaced at how tired she looked. He'd tried to get out of this stupid training course - how hard could it be to instruct a bunch of green cadets on how to keep a shuttle in space? - but Starfleet had rules (So many rules! He'd forgotten how many!) and if Tom wanted to keep his pips, he had to follow them. The relevant rule in this case said if he wanted to instruct cadets, he had to take a two week training course on Earth - away from his wife and baby daughter. They'd gotten a nanny to help out when he and B'Elanna had returned to duty last month, but she and Miral were alone at night and the seven-month-old was teething.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He was hoping his plan for their reunion would be fun, but the last thing he wanted was to create more work for her. "You're right. You've got enough on your plate. Forget it."

"No, it's fine," she said, frowning at the PADD. "It won't take long. I'm just a little confused. What's it all for?"

Tom grinned. Maybe this could work after all. "It's for Christmas," he explained.

She looked up at him, letting out a short huff of air. "I'm not _that_ sleep deprived. I know it's for Christmas. I mean, what are we going to do with it all? We've only got so much shelf space here."

"It's for the tree! I'm going to get us a tree." He had to bite his cheek to keep from blurting out the rest of his plans. Tom wanted to do something nice for her - for all of them, after their first separation since Miral's birth. Christmas - the first one he'd looked forward to in well over a decade - seemed like the perfect opportunity. He'd been watching old holiday movies during his time away from his family and now had visions of caroling and snowmen and sledding. Of course, there was no snow on Mars. Maybe he could book some holodeck time...

B'Elanna's skeptical voice interrupted his sugarplum musings. "You're going to have to get a pretty big tree to hold all these decorations," she remarked, gesturing with the PADD.

"I'll take care it," he promised her.

"That's exactly what I'm worried about," she said, a smile taking the sting out of her words. "But really, Tom, where is this coming from? Christmas is a holiday for children, isn't it? You didn't celebrate it once when we were on _Voyager_." All of sudden her face froze. "You didn't… I mean, I know your mother wanted us at their house for the holiday, but… Tom, they aren't coming _here_ , are they?"

Tom bit his lip to keep from laughing. B'Elanna and Julia hadn't quite hit it off yet. "No," he reassured her. "My parents and sisters are all staying here on Earth. But it's Miral's first Christmas. I want to make it something special. Just the three of us."

B'Elanna's shoulders relaxed and she shook her head. "She's seven months old. She's not going to remember any of it."

"Humor me?"

"You come home and let me get a good night's sleep, and you can do whatever you want," she said, resting her chin in her hand. "Your daughter is exhausting."

"Where is she?" Tom asked, missing Miral's chubby cheeks and arms and legs. It seemed incredible to him at times, that he and B'Elanna had created such a perfect little squash of a person. A little over a year ago, she didn't even exist. Now Tom sometimes felt such an ache to hold her in his arms, it was like part of his body was missing. "With Kiet?"

B'Elanna shook her head no. Tiredly. "He's left for the day. I'd just put her down for the night when you called."

"I keep forgetting the time difference. Can you wake her?" Tom asked. "I want to see her."

His wife just stared at him through the monitor.

He cleared his throat. "Right. Bad idea. I should go anyway. I'm meeting the Doc for breakfast."

"He doesn't eat."

Tom shrugged. "I didn't pick the activity. That's what he wanted to do." He touched the monitor where B'Elanna's cheek was. "I love you. I'll see you both soon."

B'Elanna smiled. "I love you, too. See you tomorrow."


	2. Two Turtle Doves

_Present Day_

"Don't just shovel it in, Mr. Paris! Were you raised in a barn? Tell me what you're experiencing."

Tom raised an eyebrow at his "dining" companion, a forkful of egg and corned beef hash paused part way to his mouth. The Doctor has asked his former crewmate to meet him at a local greasy spoon that was popular amongst the staff at Starfleet Medical. "My mom would take serious exception to that remark, Doc," he replied before taking in a mouthful of food and chewing it as long as he could stand. The hologram's expression grew more annoyed with each turn of his jaw.

"Sorry," Tom said, after he swallowed the food down. It was tasty hash, at least, (even if the company was a little questionable) with the egg cooked perfectly so the soft yolk blended into the meat and onions. "I wouldn't want to talk with my mouth full." He took a swig of coffee. "Now, do you want to explain to me why you want to watch me eat?"

"I don't want to _watch_ you eat, Mr. Paris. If I were interested in the horror genre, I'd visit a holodeck." The Doctor gestured at Tom's plate. "What I want is a detailed account of your personal eating experience - mouthfeel, taste. The interplay of bitter and sweet in your coffee. The crunch of the toast as compared to the silken texture of the egg yolk."

Tom's brow creased. "And why is that?"

The Doc leaned forward, as if he were about to reveal a particularly devastating bit of gossip. Tom was disappointed when that turned out not to be the case. "Dr. Zimmerman is working on a program to allow me to experience eating. It will start with holographic food, of course, but he thinks, with time, he may even develop a way for me to ingest organic material. But I need to collect data on how organic beings experience different foods so that the upgrades can be as accurate as possible. This restaurant, and specifically their breakfast foods, were next on my list. Normally Seven is my 'guinea pig,' but she's left for Vulcan and won't be back for three weeks. Since you were in the neighborhood, I decided you would be an acceptable replacement."

"Oh sure," Tom said, ripping off a piece of buttered and toasted sourdough with his teeth. "All us organics are interchangeable to you, huh? One blond is as good as another?"

The Doctor heaved a long, slow sigh and wiped toast crumbs off his chest with a frown. "You're making it quite clear that's not the case, Mr. Paris."

In the spirit of the holiday season, Tom indulged his photonic friend for the rest of breakfast, throwing the occasional apologetic smile at the diner's other patrons, as he had to yell much of his food monologue over the noise of the ever-growing breakfast crowd. He finally had to call a halt to it when the Doc tried to get him to eat a second order of pancakes ("But the first set were buttermilk. This is a Dutch Baby. There's a galaxy of difference between the two!") pleading that he had a rather busy agenda to get to before his shuttle home left later that evening.

"I was under the impression your training course was complete," the Doctor said, eyeing him closely. "That's why you _finally_ had time to meet with me."

Tom tried to muffle a groan as he rose from their table. He hadn't eaten this much since they first got back to the Alpha Quadrant and Chakotay gave everyone unlimited replicator access. "It _is_ done, but I've got to get ready for Christmas."

The Doctor's brow furrowed. "Christmas?"

Tom shrugged on his jacket and gave the hologram a sidelong glance as they pushed their way out of the now crowded diner. "Yes, Doc, Christmas. You must have it stored in your databanks somewhere."

The EMH waited until they were out on the sidewalk to put on his classic look of disdain and offense. Apparently he wanted to make sure Tom got the full effect. "I'm familiar with the holiday, Mr. Paris. I'm just not certain why you would want to participate in a tradition involving a retributive obese man that spies on children."

"I think you've been reading the wrong Christmas stories, Doc," Tom said with a chuckle. "Kids love this holiday - which is why I want to make sure Miral's first one is perfect." Excited to finally have someone to share his plans with, he launched into an explanation of everything he had organized as they walked back to the Starfleet campus. The Doctor seemed to regard most of Tom's holiday plotting with a mix of dubiousness and vexation, but that was how he responded to most of the pilot's ideas, so it didn't bother Tom any.

"And how is my goddaughter doing?" the EMH asked. From him, it almost sounded like an accusation. He hadn't been pleased when Tom and B'Elanna had moved to Mars. "You've taken her to the pediatrician I recommended?"

"We have and she's doing great." Tom grinned, as he always did when talk turned to Miral. "She's crawling like a fiend and just started pulling up before I left."

The Doctor nodded thoughtfully. "Her Klingon genetics are playing no small role in the rapidity of her physical development. I hope you've baby-proofed your apartment?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yes, Doctor. B'Elanna and I aren't completely incompetent, you know."

The hologram smiled in response. "I'd certainly concur with your assessment of Lieutenant Torres." As Tom opened his mouth to retort, the Doctor switched topics. "Given Miral's age, I'm surprised you were willing to leave her for so long."

"I know," Tom sighed. "It just about killed me. She's so much fun now! Laughing, smiling all the time-"

"That's not what I meant, Mr. Paris," the EMH interjected. "I mean she's at a very sensitive stage in her intellectual and emotional development. Is she demonstrating object permanence yet? Klingon infants often develop that quite a bit later than human babies. Of course, I suppose you are slightly more memorable than a toy hidden under a blanket, but seven months is commonly when attachment disorders first develop."

Tom brows drew together. "Attachment disorders?"

"Additionally, stranger anxiety can be quite intense at this age," the Doc continued. "You've been gone how long?"

"Two weeks," Tom muttered, his stomach clenching. _Why did I eat all those pancakes?_

The Doctor nodded sagely as they arrived at the door to his research lab. "Hmm… Well, I'm sure it will be fine." He smiled and patted Tom on the shoulder. "She'll probably remember you. Now wait here for a moment, I've got something for you to bring back to Mars."

Tom chewed his lip as he paced outside the Doctor's building. Was the hologram right? Was it possible that Miral wouldn't remember her own father? Did that happen with babies? Why didn't he look into this before he left? He should have left more pictures around or called more often! _It'll be fine_ , he told himself. _There may be a day or two of adjustment, and then it will be fine._ He mentally crossed "Get Santa costume to wear for Miral" off his to-do list. No reason to make it harder for his baby to recognize him than it had to be.

Just as he was about to comm the Doctor and tell him he had to leave for his parents', the EMH appeared with an enormous stuffed bear wearing an elf hat clutched in his arms. Tom could hardly wrap his arms around the thing after the Doc passed it over. "I thought Christmas didn't agree with you, Doc."

"It's not a Christmas present," the Doctor clarified with a huff. "It's a godfather present. And _this_ time, take some pictures of Miral with it and _send_ them." He also handed Tom a hypospray.

"What's this for?"

"Your indigestion," the EMH said. "You really shouldn't eat so much at one meal. It's not healthy."


	3. Three French Hens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to season 4's Random Thoughts

_2374_

Tom had been pacing so long in the corridor in front of Sickbay he was surprised he hadn't left a permanent track in the carpet. As soon as B'Elanna had been transported from the Mari homeworld straight to the Doctor's care, Tom had gotten permission to leave the conn and head down to see her. Before he even exited the turbolift, though, Chakotay had commed him.

" _The Doctor doesn't want you in there."_

"I'm his nurse, for God's sake! What do you mean he doesn't want me there?"

" _He says he doesn't need your help and he'll contact you when he's done. Stay out of his hair, Tom."_

"What hair?!"

" _Consider that an order, Lieutenant."_

So the hallway it was. When, out of frustration, he asked the computer for the time, he'd been surprised to find out it had only been about twenty minutes. It felt like it had been hours. His comm buzzed a few laps of the corridor later.

" _I'm done treating Lieutenant Torres, Mr Par-"_

Tom practically pushed open the doors of Sickbay, dissatisfied with how slowly they slid apart.

"-is." The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Have you been waiting outside this whole time?"

B'Elanna was lying in the main surgical bay, asleep or maybe unconscious. _A coma? God, was she in a coma?_ Tom moved towards her. "How is she? What did they do to her? Is she going to be OK?"

The Doctor stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the biobed. "She's fine and resting comfortably. The Mari had only just started the engramatic purge, and thankfully her Klingon synapses were rather resistant to the process. Her biggest issue is that the sedative she was given hit her rather hard, but she simply needs to sleep it off. She'll be fit for duty come morning."

"Can I see her?" Tom asked, peering at her over the Doctor's shoulder, reassuring himself that she was there and whole.

"In the morning, Mr. Paris." The hologram put a hand on his chest and pushed him towards the door.

Tom looked him in the eyes, making no effort to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. "Doc, please. Just for a minute. Please."

The Doc's perma-scowl softened, just a touch. "One minute, then. I'll be keeping time. And don't wake her up!"

Tom crossed the medical suite in no more than five strides. B'Elanna looked... fine, actually. No different than she did when she slept at night - no pallor, her expression relaxed. Tom took her hand in his, then leaned over and lay a soft kiss her on her ridges.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Tom?"

He lay his free hand on her hair. "The Doc's gonna kill me," he murmured, smiling at her. "I wasn't supposed to wake you up. How are you feeling?"

"Not bad," she said, her eyes blinking lazily. "Just kind of worn out." Her lids fell closed. "Am I OK?"

"Just fine," Tom reassured her. "The Doc said you'll be fighting fit by morning."

Her eyes opened again and she frowned at him. "Great choice of words, Flyboy." B'Elanna rolled onto her side, nuzzling her cheek into Tom's hand as she yawned. "God, I'm tired. I'm not sure I've ever been this tired."

"Then sleep," Tom whispered in her ear, placing another kiss on her temple. "I'll see you in the morning." He stood up only to see the Doctor glowering at him from the other side of the bed. "I'm going, I'm going!" he hissed at the hologram, backing away from the bed.

He headed down to her quarters, thinking he'd grab her a fresh uniform to change into in the morning. They'd exchanged door codes a few months ago, back when they'd been in hormonal overdrive from those aliens and had found every opportunity to grab each other and some time together - even if it meant slipping into the other's quarters in the middle of the night. As the door opened, Tom stumbled a step backwards.

 _Shit._ Christmas.

Tom hadn't celebrated in years, actually, not since before… Well, it didn't matter when he last celebrated, what mattered is that there hadn't been any point to it. Christmas was a holiday for friends and family, and he hadn't really had either of those things in a long time. Not until _Voyager_.

But even once he was a fully accepted member of the crew, it had still felt weird - what was he going to do? Buy a present for Harry, who seemed to regard Christmas as little more than a rather silly tradition from his childhood? Or the captain, one of the few other people on board who seemed to imbue the day with any meaning? ( _Yeah, that wouldn't be awkward at all._ ) So, in previous years, he'd downplayed the importance the day had once held for him, doing nothing more than smiling at the homely little tree Neelix put up in the mess hall and helping himself to a frosted cookie (until he found out they'd been made from leola root flour. What was wrong with the man? Did it have to go in everything?)

Only this year, he had decided, he was going to have a little private celebration of his own. His relationship with B'Elanna might be fairly new, but it had given him a hope for the future that he hadn't felt in a very long time. Maybe even a future that included joint quarters, or one or two tiny quarter-Klingons running around underfoot. He'd laughed a little at his imaginings - the two of them had a long way to go before that would be a real possibility. But it was OK to dream sometimes, wasn't it? So Tom Paris decided to revive Christmas.

He made a few cautious inquiries into B'Elanna's feelings on the matter. He didn't want to surprise her with a holiday that might bring back memories of her deadbeat human father. But she'd smiled when he'd mentioned it - saying that her human family used to celebrate it years and years ago, when her grandmother had still been alive and she was just a little girl. She had laughed a little, told him about songs her grandparents used to sing and the foods they ate, and the subject had switched to the latest difficulties with the bioneural circuits. Tom had decided to take this as a green light.

He'd saved his rations for over a month - B'Elanna raised a few eyebrows over how much pleeka rind casserole he'd eaten lately - and replicated a small tree (complete with authentic pine scent!) and some ornaments. He'd set it up in her quarters, along with the gift he'd gotten for her down on the Mari homeworld, downloaded some traditional holiday music from the archives, and waited for her to return from the surface for her surprise.

That had been three days ago.

Now… Well, now Christmas was over. And further, the gift he'd gotten her - a rather lovely wooden sculpture, that according to the artist somehow had certain… stimulating effects on viewers with amorous intentions - would only serve to remind her of the Mari and their violation of her.

He could just dump the gift, he supposed, as he recycled it in her 'fresher; they could still have a late Christmas. But as he turned and regarded the little tree he'd put on her tabletop, it looked pathetic rather than charming. Tom let out a sigh. Harry was probably right - Christmas was for children, or those with children. He and B'Elanna had only been together a few months. It was ridiculous for him to even be fantasizing about things like marriage and babies and family. Hell, they could both be dead before the week was out, the way the DQ seemed to want to chew them up and spit them out sometimes. Even more likely, one day B'Elanna would get sick of his jokes and his sarcasm and his flightiness and show him the door. He should live in the moment, enjoy what they had now - not pressure her into thinking about things neither of them was ready for.

"Merry Christmas," he snorted as he placed the tree in the 'fresher and watched it fade away with a shimmer.


	4. Four Calling Birds

_Present Day_

"Oh, dearie, let me help you!" Barra, the sturdy Irish woman that had helped raise Tom and his sisters, rushed to the kitchen door and tried to wrest the Doc's out-sized present from his hands.

"It's fine, Barra," Tom reassured her as he shifted the bear to his side and gave her a peck on the cheek. "He's just bulky, not heavy." He propped the bear up on the bench in the breakfast nook so he could give his former nanny a proper hug. "Look at you! You haven't aged a bit!"

"You saw me not five days ago," she declared as they broke apart, flipping her apron at him. "And I've long been immune to your charms, Tom Paris."

Tom raised an eyebrow and grinned. "That is a bald-faced lie."

"It is," she giggled and went for another hug. Despite being rather physically imposing, even at seventy-eight years of age, the longtime Paris family housekeeper (semi-retired) was soft as butter on the inside. "I've got the cookies all packed inside a stasis container, so they'll be as fresh as the minute they came from the oven when you give them to that darling babe of yours."

"I probably shouldn't let her first cookie be one of yours," Tom said, almost drooling at the thought of their rich buttery sweetness. It wouldn't be Christmas without some of Barra's baked goods. "Nothing else will ever live up to it."

"Enough of your cheek," she replied with a wink. "Your sisters are just in the sunroom, watching Moira's hooligans trample the roses. They'll want to see you before you leave."

Tom found his sisters sipping mugs of tea and watching Moira's husband and three boys playing tag in the yard. "Where's Aerin?" Tom asked as he came up and rested his chin on Kathleen's shoulder.

"She's at a meeting in Fez. She'll be here tomorrow." Kath pulled away from him and swatted at his ass. "Unlike your family. I can't believe Mom's letting you get away with that."

Before Tom could defend himself, Moira piped in as well. "Right? Last year, Jack and I just wanted to go skiing with the boys in the afternoon versus staying for dinner, and you would have thought I suggested we do away with Christmas altogether. It's really unfair, Tommy."

Tom raised his hands in appeasement. "What do you want from me? We just went back on duty a month ago! B'Elanna couldn't get the time off!" _Well, B'Elanna wouldn't ask for the time off…_ From the sly grin Kath was giving him, he guessed she suspected this. "And trust me, when I had dinner with Mom and Dad last night I paid for it plenty." To be honest, Owen had been uncharacteristically understanding about his son's plans for his first Christmas back in the AQ. Julia was… less so.

"You realize, darling," Julia had said over her mushroom consomme, "this will make _eleven_ Christmases in a row that you've missed."

"Yes, ma'am."

Janeway had always found it endearing when he'd "ma'am-ed" her, likely assuming his little quirk had its origins in taking the piss out of Harry Kim and his first meeting with _Voyager_ 's captain. While that certainly played a role in its use during their time in the DQ, what Janeway didn't realize was that this was a technique Tom had long utilized to try to disarm intimidating women that held power over him - his Southern-raised mother being the original model. He might get along far better with Julia than he did with Owen, but that didn't mean she didn't occasionally scare the crap out of him.

"That's not to mention all the New Year's Eve celebrations and Federation Days. Birthdays. Anniversaries."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It just makes a person feel like you don't _want_ to spend time with us, especially given how long you've been away."

"Mom, I'm sorry!" he had pleaded, then promised he'd figure out a way to get his little family all out to San Francisco for the New Year. He'd deal with the fallout at home later. One intimidating woman at a time.

He did feel a little bad not spending his first Christmas back in this quadrant with his parents and sisters. Holidays, especially Christmas, were important to his mother. Everything had to be picture perfect - the tree, the food, the music. As a small boy, Tom would be forced into stiff dress shirts for the yearly portrait by the tree, squirming and fussing until his father finally took pity on him and told Julia to 'set the boy free.' There was always fun, as well - endless cousins to play with, new toys, pulling candy canes off the tree. But despite fond memories of his childhood Christmases, Tom was looking forward to the holiday being just him and B'Elanna and Miral. He loved his siblings, their spouses and his nephews; his parents, too, even if his relationship with them was a bit more complicated. But he'd been away for so long. It had been overwhelming, being so suddenly and completely enveloped back into the Paris family fold - remembering everyone's foibles and old conflicts; his family's trademarked passive-aggression. He needed a break.

"You should get out there," Moira commented, gesturing to her family outside. "Jack could use some help."

"I really just stopped in to say goodbye," Tom clarified. "I've got a ton of stuff to do before my shuttle leaves."

His sisters cooed with approval over his planned gift for B'Elanna, but outright laughed at where he was going next. "Tom!" Moira exclaimed. "You realize you could have someone replicate one of those for you on Mars, right? Wouldn't that be a thousand times easier?"

"But then it's not _authentic_ ," Kath whined.

Tom crossed his arms and glared at them as they giggled. "I do not sound like that."

They were not deterred. "Ooo, Kath, remember how he used to set traps for Santa? How long did you believe, Tommy? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"I did not believe in Santa at twelve years of age!" _Eleven, tops._

"No, no, no, Moira," Kath said, wheezing out her words between laughs. "Remember the _sweater_?"

"Oh God," Moira groaned. "How could I forget the sweater? The last year you wore it, it barely made it halfway down your forearms. I think Mom burned it when she finally got it away from you."

"It wasn't that bad." Tom frowned. This was hardly the touching holiday goodbye he had imagined before he came here today.

"Oh, it was, Tom, it was!" Kath howled. "It had puffy reindeer!"

"And ornaments hanging off it! And jingle bells!"

"And the tinsel on the shoulders! Like epaulettes!"

"The tinsel!" Moira gasped. His sisters were now clutching each other, apparently both needing assistance to stay standing.

Tom gave a deep sigh and looked out the window at his brother-in-law, who was half buried under his sons. "I'm going to go help Jack after all. It seems like they play a lot nicer out there."

His sisters, having finally stopped laughing, tried to look contrite but the effect was ruined by the occasional snort that escaped. "Sorry, Tommy," they chorused.

"And you should know that our nephews are borderline feral. Don't be too cavalier about heading out there," Kath cautioned him. "Really, Tom - it's as if Moira gave birth to three of you."

"I'm done," Tom said and opened the door to the yard.

"Oh, Kath," Moira said from behind him. "That's terrible. My children aren't _that_ bad."

"Well, I'll be," Kath declared. "That was downright spicy, little sister! I'm so proud of you!"

"Done!" Tom called back with a grin and a shake of his head as he headed out to tackle his nephews.


	5. Five Golden Rings

_2361_

Tom propped his feet up on the arm of the couch and waved vaguely at the tree. "You've got all the red ones clumped on one side."

Moira took a step back from the tree. "Oh. Damn. Well, can you come and help?"

He let his head flop back onto the pillows. "But you're doing such a good job."

His sister turned, her brown eyes blazing. "What happened to the kid that used to shove me out of the way so he could put up his favorite ornament? Mom said _we_ were supposed to get the tree done, as in you and me and Kath."

Tom gestured around the room. "Kath's not here, either."

Moira just continued to glare. "Fine," Tom sighed as he slid off the couch. "I'll help."

Tom started to dig through the crate of ornaments, looking for the old _Enterprise A_ model that lit up and played _Jingle Bells_.

"What are you doing?" Moira demanded. "I thought you were going to help."

"I am," Tom replied, his head half in the crate. "I'm looking for the _Enterprise_."

"But we haven't finished the glass balls yet. There's an order to follow."

Tom raised his head and frowned at her. "It's a tree, Moira, not a military operation. Lighten up."

"OK, OK," she conceded, throwing her hands in the air. "Just help me."

Fifteen minutes and ornaments later, Kathleen wandered in, her nose buried in her PADD and a candy cane dangling from her mouth. "Everyone can stop panicking now. I'm here to help." She looked up at the tree. "What are you doing, Moira? You have to put all the glass balls up first. Have you never done this before?"

"Argh!" Moira glowered at her brother and sister in turn. "I hate both of you!" She chucked a miniature fuzzy santa hat at Tom's head. "You can finish the stupid thing!"

Tom bit his lip as their sister stalked out of the room, breaking into a laugh as soon as she passed the threshold. "I may have just given her shit for insisting on putting the glass balls up first."

"I know," Kath said, throwing herself onto the couch with her PADD. "I was in the next room and heard everything."

"You're mean," Tom said as he flopped down next to her. "And funny."

Kath poked him hard in the ribs with her toe. "You better get decorating. Mom wanted the tree done before Dad gets home."

"Yeah," Tom agreed with a sigh. He didn't move off the couch, but rather started picking at a feather where it stuck out from the decorative pillow under his arm.

Kath put down her PADD. "What is it?"

"I wonder if he's still mad."

"Well, what did he say the last time you two talked?"

Tom shrugged, pulling out another feather. "The last time we talked was when I told him I wasn't applying to the Academy, before he left. He was pretty pissed then, all right."

Kath's brow furrowed. "But I just talked to him last week. He's been in subspace comm range almost this entire mission."

Tom had a third feather halfway out of the pillow before Kath pulled it away. He bit his lower lip. "I may have been avoiding his calls."

"Oh, Tom. You haven't talked to Dad in over a month?"

Tom got up from the couch now and started to rearrange the ornaments already on the tree. "You weren't here, Kath," he said, his movements getting more agitated with each word. "He was so mad. He wasn't even this mad when I crashed the shuttle into Lake Tahoe. I didn't think he was ever going to stop yelling. By the time he was done with me, I felt like not only have I let him and Mom down, but Grandma, Uncle Arman, the last hundred generations of our family, and the entire population of the city of Paris to boot." He punctuated the last by throwing his arms in the air, taking out a branch of ornaments in the process.

Kath leaned over to pick up the silver glass ball that had rolled towards her and tossed it back into her brother's hands. "Now you've got the blue ones all clumped." She smiled at the exasperated look Tom gave her.. "Just trying to do my part." She patted the sofa cushions as an invitation. "It's gonna be fine, sweetie. You just blindsided him is all. He won't still be angry by now."

Tom returned to his place next to her, but couldn't relax into the cushions. Instead he perched on the edge, his head buried in his hands. "I'm not so sure, Kath. You know how he feels about Starfleet. About me being in Starfleet."

Kath ruffled his hair until Tom batted her hands away. "Yes," she said. "Starfleet is important to Dad. And yes, he thinks it's your 'calling', and he thinks you're his last great hope to carry on the Paris-Starfleet legacy."

Tom stared at her as he smoothed his hair back into place. "Is this supposed to be helping?"

His sister wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. "You're pretty important to him, too, Tom. Ultimately, Dad just wants you to be happy. I promise. He loves you - nothing you do, or don't do, is going to change that. Just give it some time." She punched him in the shoulder. "And talk to him, for God's sake! Don't be such a baby."

Tom grimaced as he rubbed his shoulder. "Yes, ma'am."

Kath smiled as she went back to her PADD. "Now leave me alone and finish the tree."

It turned into a rather pleasant afternoon in the end. Tom put on some carols, which Kath couldn't resist singing along with in her lilting alto. Moira came creeping back, annoyed no one had come to apologize, but softened when Tom offered to let her sit on his shoulders to put the star on top. Kath had laughed at them when they almost took out the freshly decorated tree, and Barra produced a fresh batch of sugar cookies for them to devour. The three Paris children were tangled on the couch together as they had as small children, admiring their decorating handiwork, when they heard the click of Julia's heels enter the foyer.

Their mother stopped in the doorway, her face pale. "You're all here. Good." She swallowed and leaned on the frame.

Kathleen jumped to her feet. "Mom? What's wrong? What's happened?"

Tom noted tears spring to his mother's eyes. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen her cry as his stomach dropped to the floor.

"Your father," Julia whispered. "He's been captured. By the Cardassians."


	6. Six Geese A-Laying

_Present Day_

Tom kicked the snow off his boots as he mounted the steps of Gretchen Janeway's front porch. Maybe it was because he'd hit his mid-thirties, or maybe it was from spending so much time with his heat-seeking wife, but he did not much care for subzero temps anymore. Especially when he was wearing a coat designed for the Bay Area's more temperate climes. Tom was running late, having been roped into a longer game of tag with his nephews than he had planned on. He shivered as he waited for someone to answer his knock.

"Tom! You made it!" Kathryn Janeway greeted him with a broad smile as she opened the heavy oak door. "Come in, come in. You must be freezing. Didn't you bring a decent jacket?"

"For two weeks in California, I did," Tom replied, now brushing snow off his shoulders (and the Doc's bear). "It's good to see you, Cap- I mean, Admiral."

His former CO frowned at him. "You mean 'Kathryn,'" she said. "Let's drop the formalities. I don't see any pips on our collars, do you?"

Tom had to concede that the woman before him didn't look much like the Captain Janeway he knew. He'd seen the captain in dress uniform, in evening gowns for the seemingly endless receptions they'd had the weeks after _Voyager_ 's return, and a few costumes for the holodeck (he smiled to himself at the thought of Arachnia), but he'd never seen her looking quite so… gentled. The soft grey sweater, the stocking feet and messy hair. But it wasn't just the clothes, he considered as he removed his jacket. She looked content. Not a word often associated with Kathryn Janeway.

Janeway relieved Tom of the massive bear he had hooked under one arm so he could pull off his wet boots. "Who's your friend?" she asked as she eyed the toy.

Tom grinned. "The Doc's not-Christmas present for Miral. This one's pretty tame, honestly. The dog he sent when she turned six months old takes over a third of her bedroom." He took the bear back and plunked it down with the rest of his belongings, before taking in his surroundings. Now _this_ was Christmas. The light dusting of snow outside, pine boughs and crimson ribbons adorning the banister, the cheerful crackle of a fire. Mixed in with the rich aroma of wood smoke, the air carried another scent that was nutty and sugary and spicy all at once. "What is that amazing smell?"

"Mom's roasting chestnuts," Janeway explained after she hung up his coat by the door. "Come have a seat by the fireplace and you can watch the master at work while you warm up."

"Hang on," he said as he followed her into the cozy wood panelled den. "She's actually roasting them on an open fire? When's the choir going to be singing yuletide carols?"

"The concert's not until four," she replied, as if this were a normal expected occurrence and not something straight out of Norman Rockwell. "You can't stay, can you?"

Tom shook his head and chuckled. "No. Maybe next year."

He declined lunch when Gretchen offered, pleading that he was still recovering from breakfast, but he was happy to share a cup of coffee with his old captain (which turned into two) and catch up on the scuttlebutt, as well as show off the latest pictures of Miral. As they were chatting, he noticed a covered easel in a well-lit corner of the next room.

"Is that one of your sister's?" he asked. Phoebe Janeway was a renowned mixed materials artist whose originals were sought after across the quadrant. He knew from a previous conversation that she'd recently been working on a series of acrylics.

"No," Janeway replied with a quick shake of her head and a small laugh. "Definitely not Phoebe's. I do a little painting myself, actually." Tom nodded, vaguely remembering her Da Vinci program. "I usually do landscapes, but I decided to try something new."

"Can I take a peek?" he asked, intrigued by the embarrassed smile on Janeway's face. He'd never seen her look less than a hundred percent confident about anything.

"I don't think so. I'm probably just going to dump the damn thing and start over." Another small chuckle. "It was actually intended to be a Christmas gift for Miral, but I found some little handmade dresses in town to give her instead. I had them shipped directly to Mars."

But Tom was way too curious to let this go. "A gift for Miral?" He got up and approached the easel. "Well, now I have to see it. You can't just throw an entire painting away."

"Tom." A touch of captainly sternness entered her tone as she moved between him and the easel. "It's really not very good."

"I'm not an art critic, Kathryn," he said, peering at it around her shoulder. "How bad could it be? I promise you, it's better than anything I could paint."

She regarded him for several seconds, her eyes narrow. Her shoulders dropped a centimeter, having made her decision. "You have to promise not to laugh," she instructed as she took hold of a corner of the dropcloth. "When I was at your apartment, I noticed how empty the walls in Miral's room were. B'Elanna said she didn't have a lot of time to decorate. So…" she said with a deep sigh. "Voilá."

Janeway pulled at the covering until it slid off the canvas. Tom squelched his immediate instinct to snatch the cloth from her hands and hide the image from ever again seeing the light of day. "Wow," he spit out. "That's… amazing."

It wasn't a lie. Tom certainly was amazed by Janeway's handiwork. It was, simply put, the most terrifying painting he'd ever seen. He guessed it was intended to be some sort of cheerful hobo clown, but she'd inexplicably chosen a series of drab greens and greys for the featureless background. Also, something had gone wrong with the facial expression. What was likely meant to be a mouth open in a laugh looked more like the gaping crimson maw of some sort of enraged hell beast. He was not letting Miral see that thing, as he preferred his daughter slept again before she was twenty. _The trash might be too good for it._

"I know, I know," she said to the ceiling before she rushed to replace the dropcloth. "It's awful. It wasn't what I had envisioned in my head."

It was odd, seeing the intrepid Kathryn Janeway so awkward and shamefaced about something in which she'd clearly invested a fair bit of time. Tom didn't like it.

So with a deep breath, and recognizing he'd have some explaining to do once he got home, he gently clasped her wrist before she could cover her work. "I think it's wonderful, actually."

She paused and looked at him, her expression not dissimilar to the one she had when he'd explained the plot of Captain Proton to her. "You do not."

"I do," he stressed. "Miral is going to love it." His heart warmed when he saw the surprise and gratitude appear on her face.

He just wished the little Christmas gift he'd given his former captain didn't involve dragging that desecrated canvas back to Mars. He supposed he could have Kiet take Miral out for the day, then take some photos of the abomination hanging on their baby's wall before she came home. That would buy him a few months, at least. The newly minted Vice Admiral was too busy to come to Mars very often.

Tom finally made his excuses - he still had more to do before he headed home. Not to mention he needed a reason to wrap that canvas up so that damn clown would stop looking at him. "But before I go, I need to get a name from you."

"A name, Tom?"

"I have to admit, I had ulterior motives in coming here today," he confessed. Tom explained his plans to make Miral's first Christmas as much like the ones from his childhood as he could get - maybe even better, if he could manage it. "I remember one year, on _Voyager_ , you were talking about how your father would take you and your sister out to chop down your own Christmas tree. Mom never liked the needles so we've always had artificial ones. But even if I can't take Miral with me this time, I thought it would nice to have a real tree from an authentic Indiana Christmas tree farm."

Janeway frowned at him, her forehead creased. "An Indiana…?" Realization dawned across her face. "Oh, Tom, I'm afraid you've made a mistake."

"About what?" he asked her, and gestured towards the elaborately decorated Scotch pine that dominated the room. "You can't tell me that's not a real tree!"

"Oh, it's real," she assured him. "But it's not from Indiana. Dad always took us to a farm in Canada."

"Canada?" Tom asked, his stomach sinking.

"Canada," Janeway confirmed. "Nova Scotia, to be exact."

 _God_ damn _it!_


	7. Seven Swans A-Swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the season 5 episode 30 Days

**2375**

 

Tom lay on his side, staring at the back wall of his cell. He hadn’t really moved since lunch, which had been at least… God, he had no idea when it had been. Shift change hadn’t happened yet, so it was less than five hours, but narrowing it down further was beyond him at the moment.

 

He could work out, he supposed -- do some push-ups or sit-ups or squats. Or he could read -- one of the only activities Janeway had allowed him. Maybe he could finish that stupid letter, like Harry told him to. But what was the point? It’s not like his father would ever read it. 

 

Tom was wondering what was the point to anything at the moment. He’d screwed everything up. Again. He’d been given a second chance out here in the Delta Quadrant -- one most fuck-ups like himself weren’t lucky enough to get -- and he’d spit it back in the face of the person who’d given it to him. And for what? An ocean that no one cared about -- not enough for anyone to do anything to fix it, at least. The Moneans weren’t going to change their practices. Riga’s work had surely been discredited by now, the earnest scientist now likely jailed. ( _ Just another crappy thing you’re responsible for, Paris. Good job, you. _ ) He’d lost his rank, the respect of his captain -- and it was all for nothing.

 

How could he go back, after this? How could he go back to the conn and fly the ship, Janeway staring daggers at him the whole time? Would Chakotay go back to the needling comments he’d made their first year on  _ Voyager _ ? Would B’Elanna wonder what she’d ever seen in him? Had he managed to push even Harry away this time? 

 

So, no - Tom wasn’t going to exercise, or read another book, or finish that stupid fucking letter. His eyes burned and he pressed the heels of his hands into them.  _ God, I’m so pathetic. _ That’s all he was and all he’d ever be. The same wretched disappointment that had gotten his friends killed at Caldik Prime. 

 

“Evening, Paris.” 

 

Shift change. He didn’t bother to respond. Even without the salutation, by now he knew the whole security team by the sound of their footsteps on the brig’s bare flooring. It seemed Ayala had drawn the short straw tonight. Oddly, despite the man’s laconic nature, he was one of the very few guards that insisted on acknowledging Tom’s presence, despite the captain’s directive against “non-essential conversation with the prisoner.”

 

Barely a dozen words were exchanged between Ayala and Tom’s current guard, Crewman Murphy, before she escaped the dreary prison. It’s not like there was much of a report to make:  “The Prisoner ate leola root stew for the eighth time this week. The Prisoner took three point six minutes to take a piss and wash his hands. The Prisoner has been staring at the walls and may have lapsed into a coma for all I know or care.” 

 

“Did your family celebrate Christmas growing up, Paris?” 

 

Tom picked up his head. Was that really Ayala? That might be the longest sentence he’d heard the man utter in five years. “Yeah,” he said.

 

“It was a big deal in our family, when I was a kid. My father loved Christmas. My mom always said it was like having another child around the holidays.” 

 

Tom rolled onto his back now, turning his face towards the guard station. Ayala wasn’t standing at his post, like usual. Instead, he was leaning back in a chair that looked like it had come from the mess hall, his long legs stretched in front of him. “Are you supposed to be doing this?” Tom asked. “Talking to me? Isn’t conversation  _ verboten _ ?” 

 

Ayala met his gaze head on, his expression impassive. “The security monitors in here are down,” he replied, not quite answering Tom’s question. “Chell blew out the relays in section seven and Torres can’t seem to find an engineer to fix them. Cap didn’t seem too bothered by it, though.” 

 

“Cap” was Chakotay. Ayala had been ‘Fleet, before he joined the Maquis. He was careful to avoid any breach of protocol, to make sure he followed regs to the letter, unless he was around his fellow former rebels. Apparently today, that included Tom.

 

“A traditional Basque Christmas,” Ayala continued, “is different from how a lot of Terrans celebrate. It lasts for nearly a week for one thing. And no Santa or Father Christmas. We have Olentzero instead. The children leave their shoes out for him to fill with candy on Christmas Eve. That’s what my boys used to do.” 

 

Tom didn’t know what happened to Ayala’s family. It wasn’t something the quiet man had chosen to share with him, and if there was one member of the crew that was above gossip, it was Tuvok’s second-in-command. Tom just knew they were gone. “Why are you telling me all this?” A far safer query than the one the pilot really wanted to ask. 

 

A small, rare smile touched the man’s olive-hued features. “Because today’s Christmas. Didn’t you know?” 

 

Tom’s eyes turned up to the ceiling. “No. I didn’t.” He supposed, if he had thought about it, if the days hadn’t started to blend together in their small, drab sameness, that he might have realized this. 

 

But so what if he had? What would it change? Would Janeway come down with a tree and a pardon all wrapped up in a bow? Not fucking likely. It was just a day like any other. Just another one out of thirty. Tom turned his head to the wall, rolling until his back faced the other man. He supposed Ayala expected him to say “Merry Christmas” or maybe thank him for treating Tom like a fellow human being for five minutes. But Tom couldn’t make himself do it. Was he supposed to be grateful for being reminded that this particular shitty day was slightly more significant than all of Tom’s other shitty days? 

 

An hour or two or six went by, Tom not moving during any of it.  _ Oh goody _ , he thought, when the door slid open and he heard Neelix’s chipper voice greet his warden,  _ dinner _ . He didn’t sit up. He hadn’t felt hungry in days, and he  _ never _ felt hungry for another one of the Talaxian’s leola root extravaganzas.

 

There was a quick, hushed conference between the two men on the other side of the forcefield and the scraping of furniture against the floor. “Thanks, Neelix,” Ayala said, suddenly increasing his volume. “I appreciate it.” 

 

“Of course, Lieutenant.” 

 

Hearing Neelix say Ayala’s rank, Tom’s  _ former _ rank, stung the pilot in a way he hadn’t expected. He closed his eyes when he heard the hiss of the forcefield being dropped.

 

“I’ll just leave it here, Mr. Paris?” Tom could feel Neelix’s eyes on him, silently pleading for acknowledgement.

 

Tom ignored him, and a beat later the forcefield buzzed back on.

 

“The bread is called  _ talo _ ,” Ayala said when the doors closed and they were alone again. “And the sausage is called  _ txistorra _ . It’s traditional, although it’s usually eaten on the Feast of Santo Tomas on the twenty-first.”

 

“Now what are you talking about?” Tom snapped. He was beginning to think he liked it better when Ayala didn’t speak.  

 

“Your dinner,” Ayala replied, his tone even. 

 

Tom pushed himself upright and looked at the small table on which Neelix had left his dinner tray. No leola root. He looked up at Ayala, who was eating some of the same food that Tom had on his own plate. “What…?” he said. “You did this?” 

 

The other man shrugged. “I would say it was a group effort.” 

 

Tom considered what Ayala had mentioned before. How Chell had blown out the relays that meant no one would see what was happening in the brig this particular Christmas night. How B’Elanna, one of the most efficient chief engineers Tom had ever seen (Seven’s endless critiques be damned) hadn’t been able to find a single person to fix them. How the ship’s first officer seemed unconcerned by this complete lack of attention to a needed repair. Not even concerned enough, Tom suspected, to inform the captain. “I… I don’t know what to say.” 

 

“That must be a first,” Ayala remarked. “Anyway, I asked Neelix to replicate me a little something special for the holiday. It seemed easy enough to ask for an extra portion. Normally, my family would eat _ turrón _ for dessert, but Torres thought you might like the cookies better.”

 

Tom felt the tentative beginnings of a grin start to pull at his mouth as he regarded the small pile of chocolate chip cookies alongside the bread and sausage. “She did, did she?” 

 

Ayala cleared his throat and Tom pulled his eyes away from the food. “What’s wrong?” The other man looked uncomfortable, squirming a bit in his chair.

 

“Nothing,” he grunted. “It’s just… She also wanted me to relay a message.” 

 

Tom cocked his head to the side, wondering what could possibly unnerve the man that once faced down a half dozen Cardassians with nothing but a phaser rifle and his perfect hair.

 

Ayala cleared his throat again and stared fixedly at his boots. “She said... She said ‘Tell him I’ll have plenty more for him to eat when he gets out of there.’” 

 

Tom blinked at him several times, an odd tightness forming in his chest. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter. He wasn’t sure what the funniest thing was -- B’Elanna’s double entendre, Ayala’s face when he said it, or maybe just the absurdity of how much joy and relief a simple meal of bread and meat and cookies could bring him in a dark moment. He laughed until tears began to stream down his face. He laughed until he slid off the bench and Ayala approached the forcefield, eyeing him as if Tom were having some sort of fit. He laughed until Ayala joined in and didn’t stop until he felt like he’d run a marathon, panting on the floor of his cell.

 

Tom pulled himself back onto the bench, still chuckling some and wiping tears from his face. He slid the table closer and wrapped a small piece sausage inside the flatbread as he saw Ayala was doing. As he chewed on the soft bread and spicy meat, he wasn’t sure he’d ever eaten anything so good in his life. “Thanks, Mike,” he murmured, the tears that threatened now not being ones of mirth.

 

Another smile from Ayala, this one a little broader. “Merry Christmas, Tom.” 

  
  



	8. Eight Maids A-Milking

_Present Day_

"Where is that son of a bitch?" Tom muttered as he paced the faux-marble floors of Grand Central Station. A passing young human woman gave him a sharp look, maybe because of his muted cursing or it might have been the odd assortment of belongings Tom had assembled on a luggage cart. In addition to the giant stuffed bear (who looked a bit worse for wear after his trip to eastern Canada), a massive container of cookies, and the canvas that was shielded from passers-by with a thick layer of brown paper, Tom was now accompanied by a two and a half meter Balsam fir, freshly cut and wrapped in red netting, (which was doing nothing to prevent the trail of pine needles he was now leaving wherever he went).

He'd convinced the transporter operator at the Bloomington station to send him directly to Halifax (it didn't hurt that Hometown Hero Kathryn Janeway had come along and leaned on her a bit), but it had still been a forty minute hovercab ride to the tree farm. After that two hour long ordeal _(No, sir. We don't cut the trees for you here. You have to do it yourself. No, sir. No laser saws. That wouldn't be very authentic, would it?_ ) he still had to get a shuttle to New York City, as the Canadian transporter operator would not be swayed into bumping him to the front of the line. ( _I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I'm having a hard time believing you have urgent Starfleet business involving a stuffed bear and a pine tree._ )

He was supposed to meet John over two hours ago, but he messaged his father-in-law as he'd been en route to the tree farm to push their meeting back. " _No problem,"_ John had replied. " _I'm free all afternoon."_ Well, free apparently didn't translate to punctual because he was now twenty minutes late and Tom needed to get to Newark for his shuttle to Mars.

"Tom!"

 _Finally._ He turned to face the greying middle-aged man rushing towards him with a sizeable box in his hands. Tom never quite knew what to say to John Torres. The man's relationship with his daughter was precarious at best. An atypically teary postpartum B'Elanna had begged Tom to keep him away when _Voyager_ had first returned to the AQ - it had taken over a week for her to feel up to facing him. Since then, John, sensing his daughter's wariness, had tried making inroads with her husband instead. There hadn't been much progress so far. It wasn't that Tom disliked John, exactly. It's just that when he looked at him, he had to occasionally fight an urge to shake the other man and ask him what the hell his problem was.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Tom," John panted. "I had forgotten that I had-"

"I don't have a ton of time, John," Tom said, in a shorter tone than he'd intended. "I've got to get a train to Newark. Is that it?" he asked, gesturing at the box.

"Yes," the older man said, smiling as he passed the heavy case over. "My brother Carl had it, but his wife has her own from her family, so it wasn't a problem-"

"Great," Tom interjected again, bouncing on his heels as he eyed the train departure times. "I'm glad it wasn't too much trouble for you. B'Elanna is really going to love this. Thanks again for getting it for me." He added it to his cart and made to push it to the platform.

"Tom. Please." John put his hand on his forearm. Tom fought an urge to shake it off.

"What is it, John?"

"How is she?" he asked, his brown eyes - the ones he'd passed down to his daughter - meeting Tom's. "B'Elanna? I've tried her a couple of times this week, thinking maybe I'd visit around Christmas. But she hasn't gotten back to me."

Tom looked at the departure board again. B'Elanna hadn't said a word about her father calling, which told him all he needed to know about her state of mind. "She's been alone with the baby for two weeks. She's probably just busy."

Which was true enough. There was more Tom could tell him - like how his wife was torn between wanting a relationship with her father and telling him to fuck off because it was no less than he deserved. How it both warmed B'Elanna's heart and broke it to see how the man doted over Miral, as she wondered if John would someday hurt his granddaughter like he had his own child. Like how maybe if he really wanted to spend Christmas with them, he would have reached out more than a week ahead of time.

But none of this was really his to say. Especially when he needed to get on the damn train.

"It's all right," John said, before Tom could speak again. "I know I need to give her time. Not push. Let her decide when she's ready to come to me. It's just... hard, sometimes. Especially around a holiday."

Tom regarded the small, lonely man that stood before him and felt something akin to pity. There was no question that John had brought this upon himself - B'Elanna had every right to reject him now after what he'd done to her as a child. But if there was ever anyone that believed that sometimes people deserved a second chance, it was Tom Paris. It wasn't his to give - B'Elanna was the only one who could decide what role John did or didn't deserve in her life. But he could at least keep the lines of communication open so she could use them if and when she was ready.

"I'll talk to her," Tom finally said. "I'm not making any promises, but maybe we can see you on New Year's."

"Thanks, Tom," John said, reaching out and squeezing his arm again. "I really appreciate it."

A quick glance showed Tom the train was leaving from a platform on the other side of the station in less than five minutes. "John, I really have to go. Thanks again!" He rushed off, not giving his father-in-law another chance to delay him.

It was just his luck that the luggage cart he picked had a faulty hover mechanism that made it list hard to the left. This made Tom nearly plow into a pair of Ferengi. He called out a quick apology and darted into the crowd before they could demand compensation, only to find himself stuck behind a group of slow moving Lurians. He had to shout "Excuse me! Coming through!" no less than four times before they finally noticed and moved out of his path at a speed that would frustrate a sloth.

Tom jogged the last several meters, causing more than one fellow traveler to jump out of his way with a yelp. Not that his haste helped him any. Just as he made it to the platform, his train whisked away in a silver blur. "Shit."

A look at the schedule showed the next one to Newark didn't leave for nearly thirty minutes. His shuttle to Mars - the last public departure tonight - left in forty-five. It would be a small miracle if he made it. "Shit!"

Tom trudged his way to the replimat so he could get a cup of coffee while he waited. He _might_ make it. The train to Newark only took six minutes, and if he really hustled once he got to the shuttleport… Except for the tree, and the bear. No way could he leave behind B'Elanna's present, or even trust it to storage. Plus, the cookies and Janeway's painting. He shuddered as he pictured the malevolent clown, but it did trigger an idea. He knew a vice admiral. One that might be willing to pull some strings to get her favorite pilot a ride to Mars for Christmas. Of course, he also knew a full admiral. One who had all kinds of influence in the 'Fleet. It would be for a really good cause, after all - asking his father for a small favor just this once. For Miral and B'Elanna he could make himself do it.

But thoughts of his father automatically led to thoughts of his mother. The mother that he'd promised he'd visit next week with his family. Picturing John's hangdog face, Tom realized he had just, in essence, invited his father-in-law to his parents' house for New Year's Eve. And he hadn't checked with his wife on any of this.

_Oh, for fuck's sake._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some references to my pre-series story Looking for Space in this chapter. You don't need to have read it to understand this section, but if you'd like some background info on Tom's trip to Concord, that's where you'll find it.

**2368**

 

Within seconds of stepping out of the controlled environment of the shuttle and into the sultry air of his island destination, Tom felt his hair frizz and his forehead break out in sweat. He took off the heavy jacket that he’d put on to guard against the early morning chill of a San Francisco December and the even colder temps of Massachusetts. 

 

His comm device buzzed with an incoming message. He ignored it, just like he had the last dozen times. No doubt it was his mother, wondering why he’d abandoned his family at Christmas; or perhaps his father, upbraiding him for disappointing his parents once again. What he dreaded most was a message from Charlie’s parents, who had surely read his confession by now. He thought of Elizabeth’s kind face as he’d left their home in Concord, asking him to stay for Christmas dinner, not yet realizing Tom was the person that had killed her only child.

 

He shivered despite the tropical environs and looked up at the sky. Bright blue, barely a cloud. Palm trees, a warm breeze coming off the nearby ocean. He couldn’t have picked a place that looked less like a traditional Christmas.

 

Which was, of course, the whole point.

 

“Welcome to American Samoa!” a cheerful voice declared. A petite, grey-haired woman in a garish floral shirt greeted him as he passed through the concourse and into the transport station. “I’m here to assist travelers to their hotels, local transportation, and the like. Are you here for business or pleasure?” 

 

Tom stared at her. It shouldn’t be a difficult question. But after tomorrow -- when he told the brass at Starfleet everything he’d done -- he wouldn’t have any business to speak of, and he was fairly certain he was incapable of experiencing pleasure ever again. He sure as hell didn’t deserve any. “Um… I guess… Do you know where the nearest bar is?” 

 

The woman’s eyebrows drew together. “A bar? I’m not sure any will be open. It’s barely eight in the morning.” 

 

_ Shit. _ Well, that was one major downside to this plan. “Right,” he said, forcing a smile. “I was just in New England, and I forgot about the time difference. Just a hotel then. Anything that’ll have a room available. I’ll only be here one night.” 

 

The grandmotherly woman tried to make small talk with him as she searched for a room, but soon gave up in the face of Tom’s monosyllabic responses. Once Tom had an address and reservation, he nodded his thanks and started to walk away. A knobby but firm hand on his arm stopped him. 

 

“Chin up,” she said with a gentle smile. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” 

 

Tom tried to swallow down the lump in his throat that her kindness triggered. “I have to go. Thank you for your help.” 

 

It was only a short hover cab ride to his hotel. He was grateful he’d thought to ask for one where he could check in immediately. The time in San Francisco was twenty two hours behind and his meeting with Admiral Nmembe was scheduled for tomorrow at 1300. The time change meant he’d been able to skip nearly the entire twenty-fifth of December, yet still have twenty fours to get as drunk as humanly possible before his meeting on the twenty-sixth. 

 

Tom stepped from the hover cab and passed through the revolving doors into the lobby. The sight of it nearly bowled him over. 

 

Christmas. Fucking Christmas decorations on every surface -- wreaths, poinsettias, three different trees. The smell of pine nearly made him gag. Of course, he’d ended up at the one hotel on the island that not only celebrated Christmas, but was lazy about taking down their goddamn decorations. All he had wanted -- his last request, as it were -- was to get away from this stupid fucking holiday and all the memories it carried with it, but here he was. Tom hoped the festive decor didn’t extend to the rooms. Or at least that he’d get drunk quickly enough to not notice if it did.

 

“Welcome to the Tradewinds Hotel!” A broad, well-tanned man was striding over to him, wearing a shirt that made the previous woman’s look downright bland. “My name is Fetu! Please, let me take your bag!” He eyed Tom’s long sleeves and pants. “I can also direct you to our resort wear shop, so you can acquire more comfortable attire for the wonderful Samoan climate.” 

 

“Thanks,” Tom said, holding onto his bag with a firm grip. “But I’m not going to be here very long. I just want to head up to my room.” 

 

“Of course, sir!” Apparently the man only spoke in one tone -- enthusiastic. “Let me just scan your identification and I can direct you to your room.” After completing his check, Fetu smiled at Tom. “I see you are from California! Christmas is very popular there, isn’t it? That is where our hotel’s owner is from as well. You must be pleasantly surprised to see our decorations! It’s hard to find Christmas in the Samoan islands.” 

 

“Yeah,” Tom replied, scratching his head and wondering how rude it would be if he pushed past the overly friendly hotel clerk to get to the lifts. “Surprised is right. You guys are so excited you celebrate it for two days, huh?” 

 

Fetu raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, sir?”

 

“It’s the twenty-sixth,” Tom sighed, waving at the closest tree. “And you’re obviously still celebrating.”

 

“No, sir!” Fetu shook his head. “It is the twenty-fifth. Christmas Day, of course!” 

 

Tom opened and closed his mouth twice before finding his words. “The twenty-fifth? But I checked the time zones… I... Samoa is twenty two hours ahead of San Francisco. It should be the twenty-sixth.” 

 

“Yes, sir!” Fetu assured him. “Samoa  _ is _ twenty two hours ahead of San Francisco. But this is  _ American _ Samoa. We are three hours behind California. So it’s still Christmas Day! You haven’t missed it!” He clapped Tom on the arm and took the opportunity to divest him of his bag. “Merry Christmas!” 

 

Tom just continued to stare at him. 

 

_ Shit. _


	10. Ten Lords A-Leaping

_Present Day_

Tom heaved an exhausted sigh as he finally keyed in the code to his apartment.

He hadn't made that last public shuttle to Mars. Not even close. At that point, the day had gone so poorly he hadn't wanted to take any more chances - he had to go right to the top. So Tom got himself a stool at the shuttleport departure lounge, swallowed a shot of whiskey with his pride as a chaser, and commed San Francisco.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Owen said, his face downturned. "Any other time I could arrange something in a heartbeat. But I just got a memo from Interstellar Meteorology. They're predicting a nasty ion storm will form in the next eight hours between here and Mars. That public shuttle was probably the last one to get out."

"Dad, I've flown through a hundred ion storms. I could take your personal shuttle, maybe. I promise I won't crash it into a lake this time." Tom added the last bit with a tentative grin. _Please, Dad. Do this for me. Just this once._

"Son," the Admiral said, and Tom knew his answer. He had to give his father credit for at least _looking_ apologetic. "They've grounded everything but starships unless it's life or death. And even if they hadn't… My shuttle's not up for those conditions. It's not safe." Owen started to reach towards the screen before letting his hand drop. "Come back to the house. I'll get you out the second it's clear."

Tom looked away as he swallowed hard, feeling the whiskey burn in his stomach. "No, that's OK. Don't go to any trouble. I'll just grab a room here and wait for the next public one. It'll be fine."

"Tom…"

"I understand, Dad, really." He looked up again and forced a smile. "It's just one day. Miral's barely half a year old, she won't know if I get back a little late, right?"

Owen smiled, too, but his eyes stayed worried. "We'll still see you next week? For New Year's? Your mother's keeping it small this year. Just family, a few of the cousins."

"Sure," Tom said with a nod. "As promised. We'll see you then."

The next public shuttle had been scheduled to leave at 0800. Which wouldn't have been so terrible, really. He still would have arrived a bit after noon on Christmas Day. Still plenty of time to cook up a nice holiday roast, open some presents. But then the ion storm had raged on long past initial predictions, and that public shuttle had a six hour delay. He might have left an hour or two earlier, maybe gotten a faster flight, if he'd taken his father up on his offer - but crawling back to the Admiral after turning him down the night before? Tom liked to think he'd grown as a person during his time in the Delta Quadrant, but everyone had their limits.

All of this meant that by the time he got himself, the bedraggled bear, the cookies that he'd picked at during the eighteen hour flight, the painting of the Clown That Ate Christmas, his progressively defoliating tree, and B'Elanna's present to his front door, it was nearly an hour past Miral's bedtime on Christmas Day. No carols, no eggnog by the fire, no holodeck sleigh ride. He'd missed the whole fucking day.

The apartment was dimly lit and quiet. He could hear the steady tinkle of pine needles hitting the tiled floor as he dragged his burdens inside. He propped the tree in a corner where the mess would be easiest to clean, left the rest just inside the door, and collapsed onto the couch, wallowing in his defeat. He really just needed to give up on this goddamn holiday. Lots of kids grew up without Christmas. It's not like it was some kind of requirement for a happy childhood. Why had it seemed so important? It was just another stupid day, artificially imbued with meaning because of the birth of a deity he didn't even believe in. Maybe if he hadn't been so focused on making everything perfect, he would have gotten home on time and actually gotten to see his baby and give his overburdened spouse a break. _Nice job, Paris_.

"Hey, stranger." B'Elanna was smiling at him from the top of the stairs. Tom's heart lifted at the sight.

"Hey, yourself." No, the damn holiday didn't matter at all. What mattered was he was here, with his family. Who cared what day it was? He stood, shaking off the last of his self-pity, and met his wife at the bottom of the staircase. He wrapped his arms around her, not another word exchanged between them, and pressed his lips to hers. He closed his eyes, breathing in B'Elanna's scent, the smell of home - be it on _Voyager_ or Earth or Mars.

After a long while, but still not nearly long enough, B'Elanna pulled back a centimeter or two. "I missed you, too," she smiled, her eyes bright. "Good to be home?"

"You have no idea," Tom moaned, pressing his face back into the soft patch that lay just above her clavicle.

She broke free, rubbing his back as she guided him towards the couch. "You hungry?" she asked once she pushed him into the cushions. "Want me to replicate you something?"

"I want to spend some time with my wife," he whined, trying to pull her onto the sofa next to him.

B'Elanna just rolled her eyes. "You were only one planet away, Tom. We talked every day. Sometimes twice a day. It's not like you've been out to sea for a year. Let me make you some dinner. Or is it breakfast? And what's with all the stuff?" she asked as she moved towards the kitchen despite his protests. "Did you bring all of Earth back with you?"

Tom just closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the couch, half wishing he'd thrown out the whole lot before he'd come home. He _was_ tired - he'd only grabbed a few hours here and there in the last twenty-four, disturbed by anxiety dreams of angry pine trees wearing elf hats, and toy bears with painted white faces and cavernous red mouths. And the Doc, too, eating bacon and informing Tom that Dr. Zimmerman was a genius and had found a way for the EMH to eat as much as he wanted, if only Tom would let him borrow his tastebuds for a while…

"Tom?"

He jerked awake and looked up to see his wife standing over him, holding a plate with a sandwich that carried the heady smell of salty meat and applewood smoke. "You didn't answer me about breakfast or dinner, so I compromised. Bacon, egg, and cheese on sourdough."

Tom's stomach rumbled as he reached for the plate. "You're too good for me."

"I know," she agreed as she settled next to him on the couch, tucking her feet under his thigh. "I am glad you finally got home, though. I was beginning to worry you weren't going to make it."

Tom was too busy tucking in to look at her. "Didn't you get my messages that I was going to be late? Because of the ion storm?" he asked through a mouthful of bread and egg.

"Of course," she said, thrusting a napkin in his face. "I meant I was worried you weren't going to make it in time for Christmas."

That made him stop chewing. "I didn't," he said, wiping the crumbs off his chin. "Christmas is over in less than four hours."

B'Elanna reached over and stole a stray bit of burnt cheese off his plate. "No." She drew out the word, an eyebrow rising. "Christmas _starts_ in less than four hours. You know it's the twenty-fourth, right?"

"Wait… what are you talking about? Today's the twenty-fifth."

"Tom, Mars is twelve hours _behind_ New York. Not ahead." She shook her head. "Who knew your issues with temporal mechanics included time zones?"

"It's still Christmas Eve?" Tom asked, his mental gears creaking. "Christmas is tomorrow?"

"Yes," B'Elanna confirmed with a slow nod. "Tomorrow. As in: not today."

He jumped to his feet, his food forgotten. "It's Christmas Day! I haven't missed it!"

"Christmas _Eve_ ," B'Elanna said, shifting into Tom's abandoned spot on the couch and taking a generous bite of his sandwich. "What are you doing?"

"There's so much to do!" he cried, running over to the tree. "A stand. I need a stand. Did you replicate one?" Tom whipped his head back to look at her. "And the ornaments?"

B'Elanna was openly laughing at him now. "If it was on the list, I replicated it. Everything's piled up in the guest room."

She watched him from her perch on the couch for a while, polishing off his sandwich. Apparently, though, the Christmas Spirit and/or Tom's exuberance was contagious, because before long she had made them a large pitcher of a warm, spicy drink she called _ponche con piquete_ and joined in on the decorating. Even more shocking, when she'd had a couple glasses of _ponche_ and _Silent Night_ came on over the sound system, B'Elanna started to sing along. In the original German.

"The rum in this isn't synthehol, is it?" Tom asked, staring at his slightly blurry cup.

"Nope," she giggled back at him before growing quiet, her eyes narrowing. "It's been a long two weeks for me, too, you know. Don't judge me."

"Of course not," he said with a grin.

Just shy of midnight, they sank into the couch, wrapped in each other's arms, and regarded their decorated tree and family room, as well as the presents they'd wrapped and laid out. "Thanks," B'Elanna said, letting her head grow heavy on Tom's shoulder. "For doing all this. I forgot how nice Christmas could be."

"Me, too," Tom said as he kissed her hair. "I love you, B'Elanna."

"I love you, too." She snuggled in a little closer. "Merry Christmas."


	11. Eleven Pipers Piping

_2350_

The sound of jingle bells woke Tom with a jolt. The motion detector! It worked!

It hadn't been easy, setting it up. It belonged to Moira - she used it to keep Tom out of her room. ( _Like I'd want any of her boring old stuff. It's not like she had any good toys or anything._ ) So first he'd had to steal the detector, then reprogram the alarm, (he wanted something more Christmas-y and that wouldn't wake up the whole house like the shrill sound his sister used) _then_ hide it under the tree where no one else would see it. Real Starfleet Intelligence-level work he was doing.

Because he needed proof. Stupid Preston Weaver said Santa was a myth used to make kids behave. Tom had had to come home and ask Kath what a "myth" was, but once she told him he wanted to march over to Preston's house and punch him in the nose. Santa was not made-up! That's crazy talk! If he was fake, then who ate the cookies? Who brought him his perfect 1:500 scale model of the _Friendship One_? Whose woolly red mitten did he find half buried in ash in the fireplace last year?

Obviously Preston was just a jerk and said all that because Santa never brought him anything. Tonight Tom was going to get the pictures to prove it to him.

He slid his mother's holocamera out from under his bed. (He'd had to steal that, too. He was starting to get worried that all this sneaking around might impact the quality or volume of his Christmas haul this year. Meh. Totally worth it.) He slowly opened the door and creeped into the darkened hallway, thankful for the nightlight his mom left on in case he had to use the bathroom. Normally he bounded down the stairs two at a time (or used the banister when no one was looking) but tonight, stealthiness was of the essence and he took them slow. He carefully picked his way over the squeaky step halfway down, keeping his eyes and ears open for clues. He was no fool - if Santa heard him, he'd be halfway up the chimney before Tom even got the camera ready.

There was the sharp click of boot heels against tile. Someone was in the kitchen! Barra's frosted sugar cookies were the best. Tom would start there, too, if he were Santa. He slid slowly across the hardwood in stockinged feet, edging his way towards the kitchen door. He readied the camera, raising it to chest height, finger hovering over the button. He let one eye peer around the door frame into the dimly lit room.

Hmm. Santa was a lot thinner than he'd imagined. The tall man's back was facing him and mostly shrouded in darkness, but it was clear from Tom's vantage point that old St. Nick had a rather lean build, kind of sporting-like. The six-year old shrugged. He supposed hauling around sacks of toys all over the world meant you were in good shape, even with the cookies. The red suit he was wearing didn't have the furry white trim from all the pictures, but Tom had assumed those might be a little inaccurate, seeing as no one ever got to actually _see_ Santa Claus on a regular basis.

He aimed the holocamera and pressed down on the button, triggering a faint whirr. Santa turned.

"Dad!" Tom exclaimed, nearly dropping the camera in his surprise.

His father smiled and stepped closer. He knelt down to Tom's level and eased the camera from his hands. "Tommy," he whispered, "what are you doing out of bed? It's almost two in the morning."

Tom leaned forward into his father's arms, pleased that he now had a co-conspirator. "I set a trap for Santa." he whispered back. "I was going to take his picture."

"Oh." His father nodded back at him. "I see. Well, I'm sorry to say you just missed him."

Tom deflated at that. Now Preston would never admit the truth! A sudden thought perked him up, though. "You're home! Mommy said you weren't going to be home for Christmas!"

"Yes, well," Dad said with a smile, "that's how I know you missed Santa. How do you think I got home so early?"

Tom's eyes widened at this. His father? Got to meet Santa? He had so many questions!

Before he could launch into them, though, he let out a wide yawn. Dad put the camera on the nearest counter and swept Tom up into his arms. "I think you'd better go back to bed, son."

Tom let his head sag onto his father's shoulder, inhaling the scent of his aftershave. Tom had missed it, while Dad had been away. Over three months this time! "I have questions."

"You always do," Dad replied as he walked across the foyer.

"Mommy said we could have second Christmas when you got back. Can we still have second Christmas?" Tom hugged his dad a little tighter.

"I don't think so." His father chuckled as he mounted the stairs. "We can make tomorrow twice as good as usual, though."

"Were you eating Santa's cookies?" He let his eyes close now. He didn't want to - there was so much he needed to know! But they felt really heavy.

"Just one," his father murmured in his ear. "Santa's very good about sharing."

"I missed you, Daddy," Tom mumbled as his father lay him down into his bed and tucked a well-loved blue elephant under his arm.

"I missed you, too, Tommy." Dad gave him a kiss on his forehead. The mattress sagged as his father lay down onto the bed next to him, pulling Tom into his chest with a strong arm. "Merry Christmas."


	12. Twelve Drummers Drumming

_Present Day_

A loud squawk issued from the baby monitor. _Not an angry one_ , Tom noted as his eyes blinked open, and he took in the dim light of a Mars dawn. _Maybe she'll go back to sleep._ He stretched his arms up with a yawn before rolling onto his side and throwing an arm over his wife.

"Why," B'Elanna moaned into her pillow, "did we stay up so late?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he murmured into her neck. B'Elanna had been more than ready for bed after they'd finished decorating the tree, but Tom had asked her to stay up for one more thing.

"Maybe in the morning or during her nap," she said with a yawn. "I'm exhausted."

"Not that," he said with a roll of his eyes. "I mean, I wouldn't say no, but that wasn't what I was getting at." He stood and pulled out the box he'd gotten from John from it's spot under the tree. "I meant this. Your present."

B'Elanna knelt on the floor next to the metal crate, reenergized by the promise of a surprise. She turned the box this way and that, searching for the opening mechanism. "What is it? It so big, I can't even guess-" She whipped her head around to glare at him. "If this is another Arachnia costume…"

Tom laughed and lowered himself onto the floor next to her. "Just open it, will ya?"

It took some fussing to get the case to open, and John had packed plenty of foam on top to protect the contents, but once B'Elanna uncovered her gift she let out a little gasp and turned again towards her husband. "Tom… How did you get this? How did you know?"

He reached over to release the Virgin Mary from where she lay nestled next to her tiny ceramic baby. "I asked your dad what would most say 'Christmas' to you. And he told me about your grandmother's Nativity set. Your Uncle Carl's been keeping it, but your father's the one that got it for me."

"He did?" Her voice was little more than a whisper now. She reached out with her hand and closed it gently around his knee. "Tom, thank you. I love it."

"I love you," he murmured, then leaned in to kiss her. Together they then set up the Nativity, on a roomy shelf well out of Miral's reach, then retired to bed.

Where they hadn't gone to sleep, after all - not right away, anyway. Best way to welcome in a holiday Tom had ever found. He nuzzled his wife's neck now, his more optimistic side hoping for an encore, before being interrupted by another squawk. Tom smiled. The only girl that could pull him away from his wife. "You stay in bed," he told B'Elanna. "I'll get her."

"Bring her here," was the muffled reply. "My boobs are going to explode."

Tom climbed out of bed and pulled on his robe. As he moved into the hallway, he could hear his daughter's calls increasing in intensity. He paused outside her door, his hand hovering over the knob. He hadn't shared his EMH-induced anxiety with B'Elanna - that their baby had forgotten him during his two weeks away. Although, he supposed, if she didn't recognize him then his wife would find out soon enough. That third lung translated into impressive volume when Miral was upset.

Another loud squawk, this one decidedly annoyed, and Tom knew he needed to bite the bullet. She was going to start screaming her head off one way or the other in a minute. He twisted the knob and pushed in the door.

Miral had pulled herself to standing and was bouncing up and down. The second she spotted Tom she stilled, her eyes growing wide. He bit his lip and slid the rest of the way into the room.

"Hi Kitten," he whispered, bracing himself for her reaction.

"Da!" she cried, bouncing again. "Da! Da!" Miral extended her arms towards Tom, and his cautious smile grew broad. He crossed over to her crib and pulled his baby daughter into his arms, his homecoming finally complete.

He brought Miral to his still dozing wife as requested and informed her that their daughter had spoken her first word. "And it was 'Da'!" he told her, the joy and pride he felt only slightly tempered by guilt that Miral had named him before B'Elanna.

His wife just snorted at him as she adjusted the pillows and lifted up her tanktop. "Tom, she's been doing that for almost a week. She says 'da' for everything. Me, Toby, a sunbeam, a piece of lint. It's the only recognizable sound she can make right now."

"Oh." He slipped back under the covers, eyeing his wife. _I'd probably say the same thing if she had said 'ma' first_ , he considered, then smiled at her.

"I like this," B'Elanna murmured, gently stroking Miral's soft brown curls as she suckled. "Lazy mornings in bed, just the three of us. All holidays should be like this."

Tom just smiled again and placed his hand over hers.

He'd tell her about New Year's tomorrow.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that read and left kudos, to my tireless beta readers Sareki and Photogirl 1890, and to Delwin for coming up with the idea of the December challenge in the first place!


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